


Memory of the Lost

by Agranulocytosis



Series: In Time's Flow [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, One Shot, POV Second Person, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agranulocytosis/pseuds/Agranulocytosis
Summary: Byleth remembers the many lives he'd lived.Or: An ironman mode, NG+++ Byleth thinks about his life.(A companion piece to my other fanfic, 'In Time's Flow', but can generally be read without any knowledge of it.)
Series: In Time's Flow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677646
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Memory of the Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Been playing a little bit of Code Vein recently, and while analysing some flow cytometry data, I got some inspiration to write this little one-shot (don't ask me how).
> 
> Trying out a different style of writing (2nd person present tense) as an exercise, after rereading an absolute favourite fic of mine from more than a decade ago that I finally rediscovered. I'd appreciate any feedback on its effectiveness, if you can spare the time!
> 
> As it says in the summary, this fic is about the Byleth from my other fanfic, but this is more of a prequel of sorts if that makes sense. Hope you enjoy!

_In the halls,  
Lie many stories  
Frozen in time,  
They long to be free_

-o-o-o-

You remember fragments.

The images are distorted, as though glimpsed through the thick fog perpetually enveloping Magdred Way, but your recollection is vivid all the same. Memories of past lives blend together, coalescing together as a force that assails you as you close your eyes and pray for a restful sleep.

Though you cannot accurately arrange them in chronological order anymore – strangely, that thought no longer frightens you as it once did – their contents etch their place into your heart; a heart that despite never once beating, pulses blood all the same.

Yes, you close your eyes. Your breathing slows. The sanctuary of Garreg Mach fades away, and –

-o-o-o-

You remember the flames.

You recall leaping over fallen debris, shoving aside scorched logs and pillars, ignoring the sting of pain as burns join blisters and cuts already present on calloused hands. You vaguely remember the events in Derdriu – the screaming, the incomprehensible _yelling_ , the cries of rage, as the Sword of the Creator carved its way through thick plate of Aldrestian steel.

‘ _Marianne!’_ you shout, as another contingent of knights fall to the Ashen Demon. ‘ _Where are you?’_

The sensation of fear, doubt and uncertainty mingling together into a truly primal force isn’t something you would soon forget – certainly, at least not in the hundreds of lifetimes you’ve lived since then. You know, now, that this will not be the last time feeling your heart being pulverised by a crushing vice of cold steel.

Oddly enough, as you have come to discover (much to your perpetual dismay), it is the memories that you so long to forget that remain pristine through your eternity of struggling.

You do not remember whether or not you fell to your knees. You think that there were the crackling of flames, joining the panicked cries of civilians and soldiers alike, but you remember the deafening silence as you behold the sight of the lifeless body of your student. As one point, you believed that perhaps, just perhaps, when the war is finally over, the two of you could be something more.

Strange as it sounds, you cannot say for certain how she died. Hundreds of lifetimes later, though the scene replays itself thousands of times, the wounds on her body are never once the same. Sometimes, you see it as the deep gash across her torso – a mortal wound, you recognise, having delivered death for all the years you’ve lived – and in others, there are no discernible injuries at all. Time plays cruel tricks upon you, distorting the already shattered fragments of memories long past, but you find that the exact details no longer interest you.

Time has, at least, given unto you a final mercy. Despite the eternity of torment it has subjected you to without so much of an explanation as to _why_ , you still remember the faint smile upon her face as though glimpsing it in the present moment. Her smile, her _precious smile_ , the only one you have ever seen on her face, preserved forevermore in perpetuity.

Sometimes, you think of it as a ghost, haunting you through all the lives you live; other times, you see it as your blessing, an empowering force that miraculously fills your limbs with energy whenever you think your body may break. In the lives since then, you see them all – all your students, precious friends and comrades, the bittersweet memories of halcyon days before the doubt and resignation to your fate set in.

You do not know how it is that your first life ended. Had it been a lance through the back, as you lay grieving on ruined streets? Had you lived through the events in Derdriu? Had it been a brutal charge against the Death Knight by a hollow shell of a man, moving without any modicum of skill? Had those been the events of your first life?

They are as fragments, each life a pane of glass shattered into pieces, then mingling together with those of all your other lives. Try as you might, you know that the original image will never be restored.

-o-o-o-

What you _do_ remember is the confusion.

You remember gasping, bolting upright in bed, reaching for the Sword of the Creator with limbs that feel too small and light. You try to orientate yourself – looking back now, you are annoyed with how ignorant and foolish you had been – and your brain struggles to comprehend just _what in the ever-living fuck_ just happened.

You remember blinking, looking around wildly, as it dawns upon you that this is without a doubt your old room in Remire Village, in a life that felt like eons ago. You feel first the doubt, the challenging of this absurd notion, followed quickly by shock as you find that your hair is now the dark blue it had once been, and that your body is most definitely (and annoyingly) smaller and weaker than before.

Looking back now, you wonder how you could ever have thought a scarce few years to be anything _close_ to ‘eons’.

You feel next the stirring of hope as the most remote of possibilities come to mind. You think that perhaps, just _perhaps_ , through the blessing of a silent Goddess, you could have travelled back in time. You hypothesise that this is possibly the result of some bizarre effect of the Divine Pulse, an ability you have lost since the time that Sothis merged with your own soul.

You remember next how you shed tears, and vow that history will never repeat itself. You whisper a promise under your breath – you no longer remember what absurd and naïve contents it held – but you are quickly interrupted. Jeralt enters the room, just as he always does, and you remember giving him a bone-breaking hug as you finally see him once more, after thinking that you have lost him forever.

You remember him stiffening, you remember his confusion, then you remember the strange feeling of warmth as ever-so-slowly, you feel his arms reaching around you in reciprocation.

Of course, a few seconds later, a familiar mercenary comes barging in. As you head off to meet with your former beloved students once more, you feel the stirring of determination within you. History, you proudly proclaim, will never be repeated.

You remember that back then, you _thanked_ the Goddess for gifting you with a second chance.

(You have not done the same ever since.)

-o-o-o-

You remember the optimisation.

You take charge of the Golden Deer once again, holding back tears of relief the first time you see them all in the flesh once more. It takes every bit of willpower you have not to break your stoic mask, as Ignatz who had fallen at the Bridge of Myrddin asks you a question. Even the sight of Lorenz as he tries to hide his scowl at one of Claude’s jokes elicits a sensation of elation, even though he sometimes gets on your nerves with his harping on nobility.

You remember the promise you made. You avoid old mistakes – you do not coddle Lysithea as a child, instead treating her just as you would her peers; taking a firm stance with Marianne, ensuring that there were others to look out for her; playing mediator between Ignatz and Raphael as they work out their silly little issues. You give them gifts, drawing upon what you know of them from your past life, artfully avoiding their surprise and incredulity as they voice their stunned questions of _just how in the Goddess’ name_ you could have possibly known all their likes and dislikes.

Thinking back now, yes, it is kind of creepy. You do not think much of it at the time, however. For months, all you feel is relief and joy, as your students grow to new heights they never reached in your first life.

Then, reality sets in.

It is funny. You’ve taken part in possibly tens of thousands of missions by now, and you can barely recall any of them from your last ten lives. This, however, in your second, has stuck by you throughout decades and centuries.

It is an auxiliary mission, one that you did not choose to embark on in your first life.

You remember shouting a warning. You see it in your mind’s eye. The arrow, released from a bandit’s bow, piercing cleanly through Leonie’s chest. You remember the silence, the _deafening silence_ , as the world grinds to a halt around you. You remember trying to call upon the Goddess’ power, to rewind time as you had once been able to.

An instant later, the moment fades, and her lifeless body topples to the ground. There is no pain on her face, only surprise and the beginnings of realisation.

You do not remember what happened next.

What you _do_ remember is finding yourself being restrained by the combined strength of Claude and Raphael. You snarl, turning to demand of them just what they thought they were doing, before you see the sight before your eyes. Dozens of bandits slain, their wounds inflicted by sharp edges and blunt fists, and in the years since you swear you think you recall _bite-marks_ where chunks of flesh lay missing from their necks.

The Sword of the Creator falls from your hands. You kneel down, as knees give way under your weight, as you try to explain yourself to your stunned students.

You remember, then, that the rumours of the Ashen Demon spread once more.

The rest of that life is a blur. The Golden Deer train hard, but the loss of Leonie weighs down upon all of them. For all your preparation, Garreg Mach is unable to withstand the combined might of Edelgard’s army and her allies. Once more, you tumble from the edge of that cliff, and awaken to find that five years have passed.

You do not remember the exact details of how it came to pass, but you find yourself at the Bridge of Myrddin once more, staring down Ferdinand as the Spear of Assal and the Sword of the Creator are held firmly in each of your hands. You know that there was an exchange of words, and you see the conviction in his cold eyes as he speaks to you of Dorothea’s death.

The rest, you try to forget.

In the end, you stand there over a body toppled from a horse, as cheers ring from Alliance soldiers behind you. You feel that strange sensation, a mix of hollowness and conviction, as you raise the Sword of the Creator for the final time in that life.

Moments later, you reawaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

_In this museum of memories,  
Finding my way,  
I search forever_

-o-o-o-

You remember exploration.

The third life is spent teaching the Black Eagles. You always did wonder what it is that drives Edelgard down the same path she chose in your first two lives, how it is that she transforms from the student you rescued in Remire Village to the Flame Emperor you despise for bringing war and devastation to your students’ beloved homeland. Equally, you desire to know just why it is that her peers fight alongside her, even though you _know_ fervently that none of them desire the war that will come.

Over time, you find, to your surprise, that you pity and empathise with Edelgard – and in some way, even now, you hate yourself for that. It would be far easier to hate her for all that she has done, will do, and will come to do, but knowing now her circumstances the steely anger in your heart slowly fades away.

You admire her conviction. Despite the odds, despite all that she has been subjected to, still she fights for a future she believes. You draw Hubert’s suspicion, but surprisingly Edelgard does not mind your questioning. She answers you readily, and for once, you can see sincerity in her eyes. As bizarre as it sounds, you think that should you so desire, you can just envision a life spent alongside her.

The more rational side of your mind warns you against such a course of action. Romance is a fool’s selfish game, one you cannot afford to play knowing all that you do. Fódlan’s war will not stop for the pining of one man’s heart. And so, you continue with your act, drawing closer to the students of the Black Eagle House, and in so doing you find that what once was a bluff on your part has unknowingly become reality.

You admire Dorothea’s distaste for bloodshed. You marvel Caspar’s diligence as he makes a name for himself based on his own abilities. You cherish Bernedetta’s innocence, even though you can barely comprehend how that paranoid brain of hers works. You appreciate Petra’s directness and honesty, and find that she makes for an excellent conversation partner even if she struggles with the language.

You allow yourself a smile each time you recall Ferdinand’s antics, how his introduction of ‘ _I am Ferdinand von Aegir!’_ sticks in your brain despite the silliness of the phrase. You are struck with wonder each time you see Linhardt hard at work researching Crests, only to discover him taking a nap nary minutes later, and wish that he could put the same diligence into his studies.

And yes, you respect even Hubert, despite his unwavering (and sometimes overwhelming) loyalty to Edelgard and commitment to more… _questionable_ methods. You think, at the time, that perhaps if you were just as crafty as he is, or show the same aptitude for statecraft and cunning as he does, that you might be able to resolve Fódlan’s war without even so much as a need for bloodshed.

You disagree with Edelgard’s methods – how can you not, after everything you have already seen? You try to dissuade her from that path, steering her away from the route of the Flame Emperor, but nothing you try works. The moons pass by quickly, and before you know it history has repeated itself.

When the time comes, however, you remember finding yourself being unable to side with Edelgard. You see the disappointment in her eyes, but it does not change her decision in the slightest. She and Hubert depart, and you are left with an enraged Rhea, who brands Edelgard an enemy of the Church and swears that her life will soon be forfeit.

You remember, back then, questioning whether you made the right decision at all.

The rest of that life you barely remember. Things play out just as you would expect of what you now call to be a typical ‘Church Route’, and in your more whimsical moments you stylise it as the path of the ‘ _Silver Snow_ ’. Your other students side with you, becoming branded as traitors to the Empire, and you fight in many battles in increasingly familiar battlefields. Ailell, the Bridge of Myrddin, Fort Merceus, Enbarr itself…

What you do remember of that life is that this is the first time you discover the existence of Those Who Slither in The Dark, as Hubert warns you posthumously in his letter. It takes minutes of furious thinking and sorting through memories of your past two lives, but then the pieces begin to fit. You know, without a doubt, that these so-called allies of Edelgard have played all of you for fools.

Within days, an army marches straight for Shambhala.

The first time you enter the City Without Light, you remember being awestruck. You see sights you doubt exist anywhere else in Fódlan – corridors built entirely of metal, constructs powered by magic and some energy source you can hardly make any sense of, contraptions the like of which seem far too advanced for anyone to even begin to comprehend.

It is a precise operation – you, alongside those who were once your enemies in past lives, make your way through the centre of a massive unground complex, ignoring exploring the greater part of this city despite all your fascination and curiosity. You know that there is only one chance to cut off the head of the Wyvern before its mighty fangs crush you and all you hold dear.

You meet him, then, the enigmatic leader of this group. You fight – and it is a close battle – one that you just barely emerge triumphant from with the combined efforts of your former students, bleeding and wounded. In his dying moments, you remember him collapsing the entirety of the underground city, swearing that he will ‘ _bring the Light to all Agarthans_ ’.

Unprepared, and already crippled by the fighting, you are crushed by rubble as spears of light completely destroy a proud civilisation that lurked in Fódlan’s shadows.

-o-o-o-

You wake up, and by now you aren’t even surprised. You proceed like clockwork: Jeralt enters, the mercenary enters, you rush to the students’ aid – and then you make a choice.

This time, you elect to go with the Blue Lions. You want to learn of Dimitri’s past, to see just _how in all of Fódlan_ someone as kind and respected as the prince could turn into the feral beast you barely glimpsed fighting in the Gronder Field.

In so doing, you understand more of the lives that each of the Lions have lived. You interact first with his childhood friends, members of Faerghus nobility. You now realise that Felix, who had always seemed cold and aloof before, cares more about those he comes to call his friends than anyone you had ever met before. Sylvain, for all his outwardly confidence, feels just as much doubt and uncertainty about himself, as you are starting to do with yourself after three continued failures in correcting the course of history. You learn, over time, how the Ingrid you know is vastly different from the Ingrid who had grown up with nothing but respect and fondness for Glenn Fraldarius.

It is then, that the realisation strikes you that these ‘Agarthans’ have been plotting far before the war even actually starts. You recognise the Tragedy of Duscur for what it is: yet another one of their shady plots, but you find yourself being unable to act on that knowledge.

Over time, you learn more about Ashe, Annette, Mercedes, and Dedue as well. By now, you no longer see yourself as a professor to any of your students, former or current. The bonds you have forged have transcended that relationship, and you find yourself conflicted as to how you could possibly even so much as raise your blade against those you cherish so dearly.

Time, as it seems, does not care for indecision. It passes, and before you know it, Edelgard makes her move.

You see, for the first time, just how it happens. How the cracks in Dimitri’s mask fades away, how the shell of fortitude he had built up to shield away the horrors of the Tragedy begin to fracture. You remember his laugh – that cruel, emotionless, _bitter_ laugh – as comprehension dawns upon him.

‘ _Is this some kind of twisted joke?!_ ’ he says – he will say, and he will _always_ say – just before charging lance-first into a group of knights.

They mobilise quickly, blocking his way, but that does not stop him in the slightest. He kills the first few with an efficiency and ruthlessness you saw wielded by the hand of the beast on the Gronder Field, and then throws his lance at Edelgard when the opportunity presents itself.

At the time, in a twisted mimicry of your previous life, you do not know whether to be more wary of him or Edelgard.

The attack comes shortly thereafter, and you are once more lost to Fódlan for five years.

When you return, Dimitri is nothing like who he used to be. Where there once was a proud prince who fought for the good of the people, standing in the Goddess’ Tower is now only a feral creature intent on killing and maiming anyone he saw as an enemy. For brief moments, you even feared for your own life.

You remember events passing quickly. You attempt to guide him, even though the frigid cold attitude he bears is nothing like the prince of old. He demands a march onto Enbarr, but thankfully listens to more cautionary advice. You fight: at Myrddin, at Ailell, and then at the Gronder Field.

You do not know much of Rodrigue, at the time. Still, you remember how he moved to protect his king, shielding him from what was undoubtedly a mortal blow. You remember striking the girl down – in a later life, fighting alongside Edelgard, you remember your shock as you recognise her to be little Fleche.

You remember grieving for his passing. You remember how clarity finally dawns upon Dimitri, but it is too little, too late. The flames of war have already ravaged Fódlan. All that any of you can do at that point is to continue pressing onward.

Privately, you already prepare yourself for a repeat of a life, hoping to avoid the deaths that have already passed.

Together, the reunited Blue Lions retake Faerghus. The people welcome her king. You march upon Enbarr, and there you meet Edelgard once more.

You recall the monstrosity she becomes, and your heart twists upon itself as your mind furiously works itself to piece together just how this Edelgard could have turned out the way she did. The one in your previous life had been more in control of herself, and would never have resorted to empowering herself with the Crests she so hated.

Nevertheless, she is defeated – and though Dimitri tries to spare her life, she forces his hand. He obliges.

You understand why, later. Edelgard always knew that the people of Fódlan would never accept a king who spares an enemy. War, she always says, has only enough room one victor.

Still, victory is not yet achieved. You extricate the letter from Hubert’s body, and an army prepares to march to Shambhala.

Before that even happens, however, another army meets yours midway. Weakened by the war as it already was, the territories of the dismantled Leicester Alliance could never hold their own against an army led by the King of Liberation. While celebrations happen in Enbarr and Fhirdiad, Garreg Mach is seized by the Agarthans.

In that life, you recall feeling _fear_ , as you fight the most desperate battle you had ever engaged in up till then. For all that you dreamed of the battle between Seiros and Nemesis, facing him in the flesh is nothing more than a struggle for survival.

His Ten Elites and the soldiers of Agartha lay waste to an army already weakened by war, and you vow for this future to never repeat itself again as your life fades away, still trying to crawl your way to your fallen students.

Once more, you awaken in Remire Village – and by now, you are tired of it.

-o-o-o-

You remember trying to change things.

You warn those who would listen of the ill tidings to come. Some pretend to listen. Most ignore you.

At one point, Seteth removes you from the position as professor, after you warn him for the twentieth time of Edelgard’s duplicity. In another life, Rhea suspects you of being an Agarthan double-agent, and orders your execution.

Really, though, you hold no ill feelings toward them. The prophetic warnings of a madman would sound crazy to everyone.

You don’t remember most of those lives. You just remember the result. _Nothing works._

There is one life where you try warning Dimitri. He listens patiently, as he always does, but then kindly tries to tell you that perhaps you are overthinking things, that there is no way El can be capable of such things, and that ‘ _Professor, you have been looking tired as of late. Please, try to get some sleep?_ ’ with those kind eyes of his.

When the inevitable betrayal does come, though, his spirit isn’t just broken. After months of trying to convince both you and himself that the words you say are not true, when realisation dawns that every single _sentence_ coming from the lips of a madman have been entirely accurate, his mind is _shattered_.

When next you meet him at the Goddess’ Tower, you had to put down the savage creature wearing the skin of a man yourself.

From then on, you give up attempting to warn others. You take matters into your own hands.

-o-o-o-

 _Silver Snow_. Garreg Mach. The Holy Mausoleum. The attack. The return. Garreg Mach, again. The Bridge of Myrddin. Gronder Field. Enbarr. Shambhala. Death.

 _Verdant Wind._ Garreg Mach. The Holy Mausoleum. The attack. The return. Garreg Mach, again. The Bridge of Myrddin. Gronder Field. Enbarr. Shambhala. Death.

 _Verdant Wind._ Garreg Mach. The Holy Mausoleum. The attack. The return. Garreg Mach, again. The Bridge of Myrddin. Gronder Field. Enbarr. Shambhala.

This time, you escape. You remember how Rhea shielded you and your students from the javelins of light raining down from the high heavens, buying you precious time for your frantic retreat at the cost of grievous injuries to herself. You believe it to be over at last, and that Fódlan may finally know peace.

Still, you cannot help but grieve over the lives that were lost during the war, on the sides of Alliance, Empire, and Kingdom alike.

Of course, Nemesis takes the chance to strike. Armies meet in battle, and as you have learnt from Edelgard, there is only one victor.

You reawaken. _Azure Moon,_ again. Garreg Mach. Something. Holy Mausoleum. Something. Gronder Field. Enbarr. Nemesis.

You die, once more.

You decide to switch things up. You side fully with Edelgard, privately wondering if this is the way things are meant to play out. Perhaps, just perhaps, all this futility is just because Edelgard and her allies were _meant_ to emerge triumphant over Fódlan.

The first year plays out the way you expect it. Bandits. Monastery. Mausoleum. Tower. Kidnapping. Village. Attack.

When you return to the Goddess’ Tower, however, you start to see why Edelgard became the way she did in your past lives. She looks… _tired._ Tired, and lonely.

The two of you draw close, and to your horror, you find that you actually _understand_ her mindset as she tells you of how the Church has to fall and how a society built on Crests and nobility has to be brought to an end by force. You try to convince yourself as you cut your way through former students and comrades in Alliance territory and in Faerghus that all this is necessary, and that you have tried everything else.

You remember, then, facing Dimitri in the Tailtean Plains. He is in worse shape than you have seen before, and he cares for little beyond separating Edelgard’s head from her shoulders.

In that moment, you distinctly remember branding him as the greater monster in that battle.

You march onto Fhirdiad. You face Rhea.

If you previously thought that Nemesis was a fierce combatant, Rhea puts even _him_ to shame.

It is a fierce battle, and one you barely remember. Fires are raging. The Sword of the Creator is moving. Edelgard’s _Aymr_ strikes at the transformed Nabatean. That is about all you can recall. Surviving for longer than a matter of seconds is a miracle in itself.

You don’t remember when it happened. Did you two actually manage to defeat Rhea? Was she even injured? In the end, the facts do not change the outcome in the slightest. Your heart is ripped from your chest – the heart gifted unto you by herself, _Sothis_ ’ heart, you learn – and your life fades away.

You awaken.

You are exhausted.

-o-o-o-

Bandits. Monastery. Mausoleum.

On and on it goes, and you do not remember how many lives you persist in that futility. You try everything – tiny variations: choosing who to talk to, the skills you teach your students, even going so far as to nudge their relationships in a direction of your choosing through the hosting of tea parties and invitations to meals.

In the end, it barely matters. You fall at Gronder Field, or at Myrddin, or at Enbarr, or Fhirdiad, or Derdriu, or Shambhala, or in a nameless swamp, or in any one of a thousand different Ailell-damned locations you barely have the energy to list.

At some point, you no longer feel the exhaustion. All you want is for it to end. You kill the bandits, ignoring the wary looks the students and Jeralt send your way as you cut a path through all of them within minutes. The moniker of the Ashen Demon returns, stronger than ever, but you pay no heed to such pointless rumours. You train your Crest, and within a matter of lives, you harness its power at will.

The fury boils over, reaching a tipping point. You kill. You sleep. You kill. You sleep. On and on it goes, life after life, until at some point you wonder just what course of events led you to where you currently are.

At some point, you face Nemesis in combat. Miraculously, you win. You recall standing there, alone, in a corpse-filled swamp, and you fall to your knees.

Victory is hollow.

Once more, you awaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

_Crystalline fragments of all I see  
Shining brightly, glimmering  
Why are they all out of reach?  
Then I can't be complete_

-o-o-o-

Strangely enough, you remember the apathy. Looking back, you think to yourself, now, that you would much rather prefer remembering useful information, such as the way that Nemesis fights, rather than the lives spent doing – well, _nothing_.

You don’t even bother sitting up, not even when Jeralt enters and calls your name. You remember his concern. You do not care.

At some point, he leaves, and chases off the bandits. He rescues the students. You _think_ that they come in at some point later that night, alongside your father and Alois.

Again, you do not care.

They leave. Jeralt stays. The Monastery is left without you as a professor.

You do not care.

You continue lying there, in Remire Village. Rumours come and go. You hear that the heir to House Riegan of the Leicester Alliance tragically lost his life against a gang of bandits hiding out in some remote mountains.

You feel the stirrings of something momentarily, but it fades away quickly enough. Soon, you do not care.

You hear that there is an attack. An unidentified force infiltrates Garreg Mach, and something is stolen from the Holy Mausoleum. You next hear whispers that the sister of the Archbishop’s aide is kidnapped. Months pass, but you hear no further development to this rumour.

To your eternal shame, _you do not care._

Jeralt stays with you the whole time. He pleads for you to talk. At one point, you think he _begs_.

…you do not even need to say aloud your thoughts regarding the matter. You do not care.

The Agarthans attack Remire Village. Jeralt leaves the room. You do not care.

Solon stands by your bedside, looking curiously at you while you stare listlessly at the ceiling. In the corner of your eye, you spot him shrugging, before a spell races toward you.

You do not care.

And neither did time care for the pleas of one man for this curse to end.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

You die.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village.

You die.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village.

You die.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

You don’t remember when, but at some point, you _begin_ to care.

You remember confusion. You remember hope. You remember rage. You remember apathy. You remember _fighting_.

You do not know how many lives it took, but eventually, you respond as Jeralt enters the room. Once more, you face the bandits.

You are surprised and ashamed that your skills are dulled. No longer can you recall the exact workings of an _Agnea’s Arrow_ , nor can you effortlessly parry aside an arrow in mid-flight with the flat of your blade. Ailell be damned, it takes all your effort to even keep up with those who are supposed to be your students.

You spend lives honing your skills to the level you once were. You spar relentlessly with Felix, Catherine, and Jeralt. You peruse tomes on magic beside Lysithea in the library. You fly on Wyverns alongside Seteth. You discuss the finer points of academia with Annette. Though you can barely keep up with their discussion, you try to listen in as Linhardt and Hanneman babble on about Crests.

You live, and you die – but for once, you sense that there might just be the slightest bit of progress.

It takes time, but at one point, you feel that you are ready. Looking back at yourself now, you cringe at your own arrogance.

That life, you do not even head to the Monastery. From the time you rescue the three house leaders, you run away from Remire Village, ignoring your father’s cries to stop. You steal a Wyvern, and fly away to Ailell.

There, for months, you train harder than you have ever done before. At some point, you joke that perhaps you dealt more damage to the valley from the _Meteors_ you unleashed than the Agarthan weapons from ages past that scourged the Valley of Torment.

Training bore fruit. Your body is stronger than ever before. Magic pulses at your command. Your agility matches even the Wyvern you adopted as your sole companion in that life. You think that you can match Nemesis even in single combat.

You race to the Monastery, flying atop your Wyvern, holding proudly in your hands the _Sword of Begalta_ you had wrestled from Macuil months ago before flying away from the enraged Wind Caller. You see their surprise, and you find yourself shocked that _Jeralt_ is present there, wearing the armour of a Knight of Seiros, completely alive.

Looking back now, you still don’t know how exactly it is that your _absence_ can end up saving his life.

Much like the other furious battles you have already fought, you remember little of the fighting. At some point, you find yourself back-to-back with Catherine, swords flashing as they cut through thick Adrestian plate. A blink of an eye later, the scene changes, and you shove Mercedes away from a stray arrow, and launch a _Sagittae_ that kills the archer that even _dared_ harm your student.

Things happen as the fighting progresses; things you cannot remember. Eventually, though, you are locked in combat against the Death Knight, the Flame Emperor, Hubert, Randolph, a score of knights and mages and more than a few demonic beasts.

You fight bravely, but it is for naught. Many fall to your hand. Few survive.

Few is _sufficient_.

Once more, you awaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

What you need, you decide, is a break.

You try to convince yourself that it is not cowardice. ‘ _Yes_ ,’ you say. ‘ _It is impossible to clearly analyse the situation after being stuck in a rigid box for so long.’_

When did you even start talking to yourself?

You shake your head. Yes, a vacation is most definitely in order.

You recall packing your things swiftly. Before Jeralt even enters the room, you are on a horse galloping away from Remire Village.

You ride eastward. You need to get away from Fódlan’s woes. You sneak past the border at Fódlan’s Throat, barely avoiding detection by the sentries on duty (Holst Goneril certainly trains his men well), but before you know it you are in Almyra.

Of course, your luck comes to an end there. A detachment of Wyvern Riders surrounds you, and you slowly lift your hands up in surrender.

You remember being brought before Nader – well, _Nardel_ , as you know him from lives past. You don’t remember exactly _why,_ but he chooses to spare the one who his men had suspected to be a foreign spy. Perhaps it is because he sensed the defeat in your eyes. Perhaps he simply acted on a whim. Perhaps he wanted information of strategic value from a Fódlander. In the end, it hardly matters.

He invites you to his encampment, asks for your shackles to be freed, and there you find that you make the first new friend you can remember in years.

Nader is intelligent. Cunning. There is a reason why he is known as the Undefeated.

You don’t see that, however. You see someone who has spent his entire life outside of Fódlan, with the mannerisms much like the young ward he once trained, and you privately wonder whether you should just leave Fódlan to rot. The world is big, you tell yourself, and you have no obligation to stay in Fódlan.

It takes time, but Nader comes to trust you. You appreciate his jokes, and see just where Claude von Riegan adopted his mannerisms from. He is honest to friends, but shrewd – oh yes, so _very_ shrewd. There is no detail that misses his attention.

You remember that at one point, after you return from hunting down a Wyvern that had been threatening one of the nearby settlements, he proclaims you an honorary Almyran. He pats you on the back, hands you a bow and quiver of arrows, and asks that you find a Wyvern to adopt, as is tradition for every seasoned Almyran warrior.

You remember him laughing as you display your skills in flying that you learnt from Seteth himself. You recall feeling offended, but that lessens by the end of the day, as after his peals of laughter he declares that ‘ _no Almyran will fly like a puny runt of a Fódlander’_ , and begins to teach you himself.

It takes months, but you feel as though you actually _belong_ here.

At some point, you try to sneak into conversation some snippets of what you have seen. He guffaws loudly, and declares that you missed your true calling as a jester.

From then, you never tried again.

Time, unfortunately, waits for no one. War comes, and though you are nowhere even _close_ to Garreg Mach, five years slip away.

When next you awaken, Almyra is different. You find yourself summarily deposited in a nearby mountain range you recognise, and walk back into camp.

Nader looks stressed. His features are tense. When he sees you, though, he stares at you with wide eyes, and demands how you know what it is that has happened over the past five years.

“I lived it,” you tell him simply.

“You _what?!”_ he says, as spittle flies from his mouth. He takes two steps forward, cutting the distance between the two of you, and grabs you by your cloak of Almyran make. “Explain yourself! Now, Byleth!”

Oddly enough, speaking to him is refreshing. For once, someone _wants_ to know about what you have experienced. You oblige, and tell him everything.

“Impossible,” he says, slumping over into his chair, and takes a long swig from the Almyran ale sitting in his tent. “Impossible… impossible…” he repeats.

It takes a long moment for him to address you again.

“Why, in your ever-living Fódlan Goddess’ name did you never think to _tell me?!_ ” he demands.

“I tried before,” you explain tiredly. “Many times. Not with you, but with everyone at the monastery. Even _Claude_ never believed me.”

He is momentarily startled by the mention of his former student, but then seems to understand your situation. By that, of course, it simply means that he walks to and fro in his tent, fuming all the while, instead of strangling you for what he perceives as your stupidity.

When he finally calms down, he explains what has been happening in Fódlan. You know most of it. Events play out the way they do. You at last learn that in your absence, the Blade Breaker falls in defence of Garreg Mach, fighting to protect the students as they escape from the monastery. Nader tells you that Claude has informed him that in his final moments, the last battle cry of the Blade Breaker was in honour of ‘Sitri’ and ‘Byleth’.

Being told that hurts less than it should, and you hate yourself for it.

Nader explains that Claude has retreated, and contacted him in secret. You cut him off, and explain that you know of that already.

He shakes his head. “Of _course_ you do,” he says. “Do we stand a chance?”

“…no,” you say reluctantly. “You take back Derdriu. Maybe even make a push for Enbarr and Fhirdiad. But even with me helping the Alliance, and the assistance of your detachment of Wyvern Riders _and_ Holst’s knights, the furthest we make it is to the battle against Nemesis. We never win.”

A moment passes, and he crushes the ceramic cup in his hands.

“…damn it all,” he finally says. “I need a drink.”

He reaches over for a second cup, downing it in one swig.

You remain silent. You want to apologise for it all, for letting the war continue the way it did, but you find that you simply cannot gather the words.

“And if you just kill this Edelgard girl?” he asks sharply, after finally recovering. “What happens then?”

“Hubert takes over the Black Eagles,” you reply automatically. Which life had that been, again? “There is a bid for power. Control of the Empire goes to Lord Arundel.”

He winces. “That’s one of them _Agarthans_ , right?”

You shrug. “Possibly. He’s allied with them, but I don’t know the exact technicalities of their dealings. He might even be one of them.”

“Couldn’t have been pretty.”

“He crushes Garreg Mach,” you say factually, without even a change in intonation. “With the combined strength of the Adrestian military and those of Shambhala, there are no survivors on our side.”

There is a long silence.

“…how many times have you gone through this, kid?” he asks, and you think that there is a trace of pity in his eyes.

“I’ve stopped counting.”

“…fuck,” he finally says, staring at the bottom of his cup. “I don’t envy you, Byleth.”

“Neither do I,” you say simply.

Again, silence takes hold.

“Why did you come to Almyra?”

You consider the question, and decide to answer honestly.

“I needed a break.”

Nader gives a hollow laugh, and claps you weakly on the back. “Not many Fódlanders consider a trip to _Almyra_ a vacation, kid.”

“I’m not exactly any Fódlander, am I?” you quip back just as easily.

Again, he laughs, but as his chuckles die down, he looks at you seriously.

“I know your type, Byleth,” he starts saying. “You’re from Fódlan, but you’re as tough as any one of my riders. You aren’t going to stop here, are you kid?”

“…no.”

“Promise me something,” he says suddenly. You look at him curiously. “You don’t owe us anything, but this war… it’s going to affect Almyra. They won’t stop with Fódlan. Once they crush Goneril, they’ll come marching right through Fódlan’s Throat, and they’ll take away my home. My _people_.”

You ignore how his voice cracks.

“I know it’s a lot to ask for, kid. But please, don’t let Almyra burn.”

“I’ll try my best,” you say immediately. Then, because you cannot resist, you continue speaking. “After all, I _am_ an honorary Almyran now, aren’t I?”

It takes a moment for him to catch on, but then he snorts loudly, and laughs. He pats you on the back, and the force of it feels more in line with the Nader than you have come to know over the past few months. “Damn right you are, kid.”

Nader begins speaking again. “Kid,” he says. “If ever you need help… come find me. I’ll see if I can spare any men.”

“I’m not sure if that’s going to be of much use. Claude already secured the help of your riders and Holst’s knights through his truce, and even _that_ wasn’t enough,” you say. Then, you look at him quizzically. “Besides, why in the Goddess’ name would another you even spare troops to help us?”

“The offer is always open, kid,” he says, and then grabs his axe and shield from the wall. “And as long as you fly the way you do, and there’s no way I – or any one of my riders, for that matter – will mistake you as a slimy Fódlander.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks, Nader.”

He moves to the entrance of his tent, pausing momentarily.

“The boy’s asked for aid. We’re to rendezvous with Goneril, and then fly as an advance party to Derdriu.” Nader the Undefeated looks at you now impassively, without the slightest trace of pity or imploration. “Will you fight?”

“Always.”

Shortly thereafter, you fall at Enbarr to the Death Knight, and you reawaken in Remire Village.

You don’t take up his offer for help, knowing that it is insufficient, but the notion of it warms your heart all the same.

-o-o-o-

You remember that you still spend the next life travelling. Almyra has opened your eyes to the sheer vastness of the world. You see Brigid, you see Dagda, and you even travel to Duscur to see the remnants of a bloody massacre from years past.

You find that you enjoy it. You decide, that once this is all over, and you can finally find the time for it, you will explore whatever there is to explore of this world. Perhaps some of your former students might join you, when that day comes. Claude always did enjoy unearthing secrets.

At some point, you even visit Goneril. Holst rightly starts off being suspicious of you, but the two of you soon hit it off. You two aren’t quite as close as you had been with Nader, but he welcomes you as a guest nonetheless, so long as you continue providing your keep through odd tasks around the region. You patrol the local area, put down a few bandit encampments, even hunt down a few monsters, and you find that you quite enjoy a quiet life like this, away from the scheming that will soon grip Fódlan.

Hilda returns home at one point, and you find to your surprise that you feel slightly hurt that she does not recognise you.

Months pass, five years fly by, and before you know it the war catches up with you.

You don’t remember how you died.

Once again, you reawaken in Remire Village, and you know that your vacation is over. It is time to return to the only task you’ve ever known.

-o-o-o-

You start trying more, ah, _unorthodox_ means of altering Fódlan’s future. You set up a mercenary band. That plan fails dramatically, since despite your reputation as the Ashen Demon, you simply do not have the same influence that more established mercenaries like the Blade Breaker held.

There was that time where you created an organisation of assassins. A few choice assassinations of key figures here and there helped to influence the political climate, but it ultimately backfires on you. Assassins, personally trained though they may be, are still liable to the influence of others. They turn on you, revealing your secrets, and humorous as it sounds Empire, Kingdom _and_ Alliance are united in declaring you a wanted criminal.

Their unity, of course, does not prevent the start of war. You return to the drawing board.

The unorthodox gives way to the esoteric. You spend months cooped up in the library, attempting to devise a new spell that could somehow replicate the javelins of light you had previously seen lay waste to entire cities. Needless to say, that plan didn’t bear even a single seedling, much less any fruit.

You return to some old methods you had left by the wayside. You arrange tea parties and meals between the house leaders to try and get them to sort out their differences, and all that _that_ achieved was being labelled as the ‘creepy’ and ‘uncool’ professor. Having your position as professor revoked was on the table at some point.

By then, what you feel can scarcely be called exhaustion or apathy anymore. You simply roll the dice, and see where the whims of fate take you. Much as you try to leave it behind you in the past, you can’t help but smile in fond remembrance at the time you tried making a fool of yourself, hoping that ‘ _the power of friendship!’_ would correct Edelgard’s evil ways.

…yeah. By that point, you were out of ideas.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village, and you do not feel a thing.

-o-o-o-

You remember that you begin to wander. Unlike the vacation you had, you now try searching for anything that may be of use to you.

At one point, you fortuitously stumble across Macuil, while searching the Sreng Region for forgotten knowledge. You try asking for his aid, but his brusque response is to leave his sight at once, that he will not interfere with the affairs of filthy humans, and that he can smell the stench of Sothis upon you.

You try explaining yourself, of course. You tell him that the Agarthans plot to destroy Fódlan. You tell him about Shambhala. You tell him how they have already orchestrated the Tragedy of Duscur.

He does not believe you in the slightest. Worse, he is now angered, thinking that you are attempting to manipulate him into your dealings, and begins to deliver on his threat.

You flee, of course. You aren’t stupid enough to think that you can fight _The Wind Caller_ single-handedly, untrained as your body is at present. You doubt that even if you trained as you did back in Ailell all those lives ago, you could put up a good fight against him.

That does give you inspiration, however, and you search next for Indech. It takes some time, but eventually you find him in that temple over at Lake Teutates. The Immovable is a veritable figure of strength, with his large and imposing armoured form that dwarfs even the mightiest of Wyverns that you have seen before.

He is more sympathetic to your pleas, and though he is doubtful of your claims, he does not brush you aside. Sensing the presence of Sothis in you must have lent at least _some_ credence to your words, even though it could just have easily been some Agarthan machination. Instead, he seeks to test your skills, and you gladly reciprocate. You fight with lance, bow and sword, and though you do not defeat him, he is impressed.

“Well?” you ask, panting rapidly, as he finally calls for a lull to the battle.

“I cannot participate in your war,” he says after a moment’s pause, genuine regret in his voice. “I am sorry, young Byleth.”

You don’t even feel disappointment at that, after the series of it that your life has become.

“Why not?” you ask instead.

“My power is not what it once was,” he says. “The best I can do nowadays is to have fun meddling with humans who wander in here. My body is too large, and my movements too slow, to fight against an army as I once did.”

“I see,” you say, without feeling offended by his refusal. You expect as much, anyway, after Macuil’s refusal. “I won’t trouble you any further, then.”

“That is not to say that I cannot help you,” he says with a trace of amusement, and you turn back to face him from where you are already walking away from the temple. “Your combat forms are admirable, yes, and from what I understand of what you have told me, the strength of your body resets each time you turn back the hands of time.”

He pauses. You nod slowly, and he continues speaking.

“What I _can_ offer you is to hone your skills in combat,” he suggests. A question immediately comes to your mind, but before you can voice it, he holds out a large paw. He chuckles. “I may not look like it _now,_ but I was once Saint Indech, you know. I do not mean to brag, but I fought alongside my sister against our old enemies. I believe that you humans once respected me for – what was it? – wisdom and dexterity? Strength and fortitude?”

“We still do,” you reply immediately, wondering just how it is that you could ever have forgotten that. You’ve _seen_ that statue of Saint Indech holding his legendary bow many times before, standing proudly as though facing a horde of Nemesis’ warriors in battle. “You’re offering to train me? Are you sure?”

“It will be brutal,” he says gravely. “I was once known as a strict teacher, but –“

“I accept,” you say immediately, then allow a smile onto your face at his quizzical look, one that requested elaboration. “You should have seen what I did to Ailell all those lives back.”

His booming laughter shakes the temple, and before you know it, you make another unlikely friend and mentor.

Indech does not lie when he says that he is a harsh teacher. It takes two more lives, but soon you feel confident that his training helped you develop a style of your own in sword, lance, bow and axe, drawing _inspiration_ from the forms of others, rather than the previous versions that had been plagiarised wholesale.

You wonder just how you could possibly have thought yourself to be ready all those years ago, when you still had and have so much more to learn.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village, and you feel an old, familiar sensation of hope.

-o-o-o-

You face failure after failure, but each time you proceed slightly further. You return to the ‘old classics’, as you now call them. _Verdant Wind. Silver Snow. Azure Moon. Crimson Flower._ How you ever came up with those stylised names ages ago, you have no clue.

You optimise. You fight.

Sometimes, you even _win_. Nemesis falls, and you survive. There are cries of victory. ‘Fódlan is united! Fódlan is saved!’

You never forget those who have died in the course of each life, however.

Within days, you reawaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

_Fleeting memory  
Turning to ash, I cannot escape  
Oh I persist, in this futility  
One more step I go_

-o-o-o-

How long has it been? How long since your first life? How long since Sothis’ voice had forevermore been silenced to you?

How long since the merger of your souls? How long have you been cursed?

Strangely enough, you do not remember when that thought stopped bothering you. You recall how you once raged about it, and how you once fell into apathy, and how you cursed the Goddess’ name and how you tried to reach out to others, to find _meaning_ in this perpetuity.

Now, though, you accept it. This is _your_ life. Has been, for – what, dozens of years? Hundreds? Has it yet reached the thousands?

There are variations. You remember one life among many of the recent past that sticks out, and for good reason.

You remember shoving Kronya aside, remember the rage and then the mocking laugh she gives at what she thought to be a pathetic attack, and then the eyes that are wide with shock and confusion when comprehension finally dawns. You remember Solon being wary, retreating immediately from the battle. You turn back to fight Kronya, the sole remaining threat now that Solon cannot cast his ‘Forbidden Spell of Zahra’ (very annoyingly, you have never found any records pertaining to this). You ready your sword, but then – then things begin to change.

Kronya _gives up._ She becomes – not an enemy, but not an ally. You cannot trust her that easily, after all that she has done. She is kept under strict watch, but you recognise the look in her eye.

Loss. Confusion. Denial. Rage. Hopelessness. Apathy.

…how can you not?

And in that life, you learn about her. And despite all that she has done, despite all that she has taken from you, you pity her.

From the drivel coming from her mouth, you deduce the Agarthan propaganda that had been fed to her all her life. You learn the Agarthan view of things, and though you now understand just _why_ they fought after all that you have been through, you find that you cannot accept their methods. They want to change Fódlan, to remove the Church from power, to restore Agartha – but you refuse to allow that to be at the expense of those still living _in_ Fódlan. You see why the Church has to change, why Rhea’s strict enforcement of control over all of Fódlan is wrong – but you _know_ that there has to be a better way. A peaceful way.

Strangely enough? You pity Kronya more than you do _Edelgard_.

Kronya is, for all intents and purposes, a child that has grown up being taught only a single point of view. You learn of their Tenets. ‘ _Restore the Light to Agartha’_ , ‘ _Bring enlightenment to the misguided souls of the surface world’, ‘Crush those who worship at the feet of the Beast’_ , ‘ _Punish the remaining Beasts for their past transgressions’,_ and many other similarly-worded principles.

You think that perhaps, just perhaps, she could be an ally. You try to change her.

You teach her. You educate her about the truth of the ‘surface world’. You tell her, as one does a child, that no two humans are alike, and of the fallacies of their tenets.

Slowly, she changes.

It is not fast enough.

Time waits for no one, as you know better than anyone else. The attack on Garreg Mach comes, but with the time you have already spent trying to re-educate Kronya, you neglect your other students. Several die.

Five years later, Kronya returns, but earning her assistance costs you the lives of your precious students. You decide that such a trade is unacceptable.

You never attempt that again.

Deep down, though, you hope that there is a chance to help her.

Once more, you reawaken in Remire Village.

-o-o-o-

You remember things, but the details are hazy. Funnily enough, you remember less of what must have been the last twenty or so lives than the first few you have ever lived through.

The people are never the same – but then again, you aren’t exactly the same Byleth you used to be, are you?

Sometimes, you wonder just what you fight for; why you persist in this futility. Each time you do, you see their faces. Marianne’s smile in Derdriu, Dimitri’s clarity as he is welcomed as King of Faerghus, the rare moments where the cracks in Edelgard’s façade begin to show, Claude’s antics, Ashe’s earnestness, Annette and Mercedes as they eagerly await your class, Lysithea hard at work in the library, Linhardt napping, Leonie pestering Jeralt, Hubert skulking around… Ah, even that proud smile Nader wore as he welcomes you as an Almyran.

Many things you forget, but many things you don’t. You doubt you will soon forget these.

And now, in your first life as part of the Church, and yet not part of any of the Houses, you wonder just how things may turn out. Do you feel hope? Do you think success will come? Can the war be stopped?

Can your students and friends be saved?

You do not know. And now, after everything you have already lived through in your past lives – and now in this one – you know that not knowing is perfectly alright.

You do not know what will happen tomorrow. Who will emerge triumphant in their Battle of the Eagle and Lion? Does it even matter?

What you do know, is that regardless of the outcome, you will be proud of them all.

What you do know, is that you feel that old curiosity from your early lives sparking within once more.

What you do know – and what you _remember_ knowing, ever since the day of your first rebirth – is that so long as you reawaken in Remire Village, you will continue to fight.

**Author's Note:**

> Random lyrics in text: Memory of the Lost, from Code Vein.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it, and I appreciate any feedback you may have!


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